A/N: Back. Again. With ( surprise, surprise ) another oneshot. Kurenai x Asuma, ten little snippets for your entertainment. Opening and ending sequences are from Paul Celan's "Count..".
Name: Aftermath delirium
Summary: Count what was bitter and kept you awake.
Fandom: Naruto
Timeline: varies, mostly post Asuma's death
Pairing: Kurenai x Asuma
Word count: 1366
Count the almonds,
count what was bitter and kept you awake,
Count me in
What she hates most about his tobacco addiction is that no matter how hard she scrubs and washes, in spite of all the air fresheners she (ab)uses and against all common sense the goddamned smell never goes away. There's always some faint trace of it casually coiling around her house, infiltrating in the fabric of her life like an uncomfortable innuendo. The looks she sometimes gets form Kiba don't help, either.
Fact: passive smoking is harmful. Kurenai never misses a chance of shoving statistics down his throat whenever there's an opportunity and Asuma always points out that so is trying to swallow as much as you can ( because of the obvious threat a semi-chewed blob of food poses for your air supply ) but that never stopped her from doing it.
She'd like to say something ( anything ) to make the silence go away, but everything she thinks of sounds hollow in front of the polished war memorial so she does what seems right and clings to the only thing that makes sense in this twisted reflection of a world: there is still some life left ( she can feel it, soft chakra steadily pulsing in her insides ) and it's worth caring for.
Since before she had even become a shinobi she'd overhear stories about valiant Konoha nins dying for the village and how there had been no fear of death, no regret for those they left behind, their minds calm and focused on the mission. They are heroes. And you should look up to them. She'd listened with bight-eyed innocence and thought ' that's what I'm going to be when I grow up '.
There is no such thing as heroes. Only people who die in a filthy pool of their own blood on some god forsaken battlefield far away from what they like to call home. And we label them, like cans sitting on a shelf ( Konoha's main export is heroes, served along a side-dish of tragedy ), with some strong word that sounds too empty to bring any real comfort. There is no glory in that. And you can never look up to them, because they're shinobi and were brought up to kill for a living, to be a tool for the village, to end a life then run away to the next assignment and there is no place in heaven for those who learn to measure life in the number of friends who died in your place. The only way to look is down, down into a bloodied face you can't even recognize anymore or a closed casket lid.
She likes to watch him sleep, his chest rising and falling like the tide ( and she is the rock stranded in the middle of the ocean; there's a heartbeat separating them, but it stretches on to infinity, not meant for touching or crossing ). He smells salty and his skin is sticky, as if begging her fingers to linger more and she can't, will not because it's already late and the sun is coming up. There are reports to be handed in and genins to be taken care of so she throws the covers away, facing down the chilly air with nothing more than a blank expression plastered on her features. Immobile. Sterile. A mortuary mask. Then she stretches and allows the light to touch her delicately, but she never lets it get too far. Never too deep. She is the moon; distant, but strong in her own way, playing with the tide.
You couldn't call her feminine, not without ignoring the stains that only another shinobi could see. She's tainted in the worst kind of way; she's seen death and held its hand without fear; she's tread across graves that shouldn't have existed and dug a couple more on her own with head held up high and hands rigid. Claws, not fingers, meant for killing, not caring. She couldn't touch him tenderly or plant light kisses, there was no room for sugar and no need for spice. What she delivered best was swift death and bitter illusions, twisted together and wrapped around the throat. He never complained, not once, but he'd made a habit of watching her while gardening. That knowing smile was infuriating.
She'd like to believe her own lies and accept his death like she had done for many others in the past. They are ( no, were ) shinobi after all and this should be easy, a small exercise in the art of being carved into nothingness from the inside out. It's only natural to sacrifice for your country, to die with honor and dignity knowing that you've done what best. He had done what was best, but there were nights when she found herself shivering from a chill ( as real as the regrets clouding her world ). Her entire existence was now an unspoken question, lurking behind quiet hours and the still-frame smell of cigarettes that lived in her head. What about me?, her reflection asks and she turns around sharply, not wanting to waste any more time. There are still reports to be signed, and even though the is no more Team 8 they are still her kids. What about us?, the mirror asks again, only quieter, the last words fading away like a nicotine cloud.
Let me show you something, he says and she's too tired for silly games so she bluntly refuses to step out of the house. He looks hurt and assures her that she doesn't know what she's missing out on. She looks at him blankly, unconsciously shifting her position on the couch, second-guessing herself ( she's been doing this quite often lately ), wondering whether it's worth it after all. Please, he asks tugging her hand and when did that happen? He'd closed the distance between them too fast; she disregards it as a simple illusion. She should know best. She does. It's just that she chooses to ignore it for the moment. And now his tone is urgent, pleading, and his hand is soft against her own which is unusual because, as far as she can remember, his hands were tree bark-rough. Why won't you look at me? It's only then that she realizes that she'd been averting her gaze for the longest time, so completely absorbed in the hem of her skirt that not even the room registered in her foggy mind. She cautiously raises her eyes and what she sees there is an entire universe of pain and love and death and kisses and blood-stained metal staring back at her through a pair of what are no longer eyes but deep, cavernous holes in his face. He smells of dirt soaked with blood, of shiny marble, lilies…She takes gulps of air hoping for the smoke to come back because anything is better than this and he feels just like a tomb closing down on her. Get out of here, he whispers hoarsely; even his breath is dry, corpse-like. I can't show it to you. She hates for that, wants to hurt him to see the blood flow so he would know that he was alive and stop messing around. You need to see it for yourself. And then she wakes up.
The house is quieter without him, less of a home and more of brick and wood stuck together around her. She prowls the hallway like she was taught a shinobi was supposed to, with determination in her legs, head held up high ( "Walk like you have a purpose and none will question why you're heading directly towards the army headquarters with enough weapons to decimate a hidden village," her sensei says while grinning at his students. It seems silly and her twelve-year-old mind immediately classifies it as such but her body throbs in excitement at the idea. It already knows what her reason does not. Live like you have a purpose and the aftermath might not kill you ) waiting for Shikamaru to show up and chase away the house ( all lazy smiles for her ) and leave the home.
Make me bitter.
Count me among the almonds.